The Gratitude of Insects
by Antiquixotic
Summary: An apocalypse may mean the end of the world, but snark is eternal.


_Written for the Halloween Fic Challenge at sick!Wilson, although there's not much sick! going on. Do past injuries count?_

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><p>"But seriously, why zombies?"<p>

A double shift at guard duty had ensured that Wilson was exhausted, but he still found the energy to sigh. "What are you babbling about now?"

"Nine months," House said, as if his friend hadn't spoken. Shifting on his stool perch, he adjusted the stock of the rifle against his shoulder and peered down the sight. "Nine months of screaming and dying in new and interesting ways, and not once has anyone asked that question. Why zombies?"

"After the eleventh 'Night of the Living Dead' movie, I guess everyone figured it was inevitable." Wilson scratched at the ragged bandanna that covered his damaged left eye; a souvenir of a supply raid gone wrong. It was a hot day, even with the guard post's tarp and plywood canopy, and the sweat soaking the edges of the cloth was becoming an irritant. "It beats nuclear winter, anyway. At least bodies decompose."

An eloquent snort told him what House thought of that. "When the cockroaches arise to take our place, I'm sure they'll be grateful for all the unirradiated land we left behind."

"That's just like you, House. Always looking on the bright side."

A rogue breeze snaked under the canopy, and the men fell quiet for a time, enjoying the temporary reprieve from the heat. Wilson lowered the scope that he'd been peering through and closed his eye briefly. House glanced over at his friend, taking in the five o'clock shadow and the new lines around his mouth, which had moved him from the ranks of almost-pretty and firmly into the file of ruggedly handsome. House added the transformation to his mental list of Not Fair, right between the apocalypse and vicodin expiration dates.

There was a sudden clanking from below, where Martinez and Arend were attempting to repair a salvaged tanker truck. Both men on watch winced and quickly looked through their respective scopes, ensuring that the noise hadn't attracted any unwelcome guests. A few of the walking dead staggered and lurched in the distance, but none had seemed to have taken notice of their compound; coppled together from the fenced off remains of a Home Depot.

After a moment, Wilson made a disgusted sound and let the scope fall to his lap. At the other's questioning glance, he said, "This whole thing is just embarrassing. We spent millions of years clawing our way to the top of the food chain, and we're brought down by a virus and a bunch of shambling maggot farms. What will the aliens think?"

"There are aliens now? I missed the memo and complimentary foil hat."

Wilson grunted in amusement, and if his smile was somewhat strained, neither man chose to comment on it.

"I shot a zombie toddler yesterday," Wilson said, his gaze locked somewhere in the middle distance, "so I'm not willing to discount anything any more. Aliens, werewolves, sparkly vampires... it's all up for grabs now, as far as I'm concerned."

"Still not boring. Crazy, but not boring." Feeling the need to change the subject, and hoping to banish the distance in the other man's expression, House looked through the rifle sight and scanned the far away figures that wandered through the burnt out remains of Princeton. After a moment, he gave an appreciative whistle. "Oh, _hello_. Check out the tits on two o'clock."

It seemed like Wilson wouldn't play along, but after a a pause, his lifted the scope once again. A slow smile curved his mouth, and House felt something in his chest loosen.

"Nice. A shame about the intestines."

House grinned and shook out the ache in his shoulder with the gentle clink of soda cans. The flattened cans sewn between the lining and the leather made the jacket stiff and uncomfortable, but they'd saved his life more than once when a zombie had latched onto his arm and found nothing to chew on but tin.

Shifting again in his seat, his leg and backside aching in tandem, House settled the stock back onto his shoulder. "I bet you our last can of peaches that I can tag her from here."

"You mean _my_last can. And no way. I'm saving those for my birthday."

Looking away from his target for a moment, he gifted his companion with an incredulous look. "No one celebrates birthdays any more, idiot. Besides, it's not for another ten days. Don't be greedy."

"Twenty-five years," Wilson blurted. Standing with a crackle of protesting vertebrae, he tucked the scope under one arm and planted his hands on his hips. The fact that the pose was still effective, even with the eyepatch and pocketed vest, was another thing to add to the Not Fair list. "It took you twenty-five years and the end of the world to acknowledge that you know my birth date."

"Happy forty-fucking-fifth, Wilson," House said, turning his attention back to the female zombie. "Have an apocalypse on me."

Wilson snorted appreciatively and pressed his hands against his back, stretching out his spine with a wince. House watched as the well-endowed meat sack staggered closer to the chain link border of their compound. The change in direction made him privately nervous, but since she seemed unaware of their presence, there was no need to-

There was a curse from down below, followed by an unholy bang as the weight of the tanker truck snapped the jack, sending it crashing suddenly to the ground. Both men felt a chill as the silicon zombie's head snapped in their direction, decomposition fluid drooling from her mouth. Teeth drawing back into an animal snarl, she began to lurch toward the compound with sudden speed and purpose, slowed down only by a foot that dragged in an odd angle behind her.

Wilson cursed and whacked House with the narrow end of the scope, pointing at the creature with his free hand. "She's made us. Shoot her!"

As a man who'd always had issues with impulse control and saw no need to police himself now, House gave his companion a challenging look. "Peaches, Wilson."

"Oh, for the love of... fine! Just shoot her before she calls for the others. I'm too tired to deal with another invasion this week."

"So sad, watching a man get old." Wasting no further time, he sighted down the rifle and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked against his shoulder, and the zombie went down in an explosion of bone and brain matter. "Damn, I'm good."

"You're a regular Rembrandt with a sniper rifle," Wilson said dryly. He spent a few minutes combing the distance with his scope, ensuring that no others had been attracted to the crash or subsequent gunshot. Finally satisfied, he lowered the device with a sigh and walked over to his pack, which was leaning against the concrete barrier of the roof. Moving aside a few water bottles, he fished out the battered can and shoved it at House. "Here. I hope you choke."

Giving the can a shake, he listened to the slosh of the sweet fruit with a satisfied ear, and then set it at his feet. "Oh, don't sulk. It'll give you wrinkles."

"I never sulk," Wilson said, the twist of his mouth making those words a lie. After a moment, though, he grinned a little and tapped at the crow's feet marking the corner of his remaining eye. "I have a long way to go before I beat you in the wrinkle department, anyway."

Conceding the point with a tight smile of his own, House decided to indulge in a bit of altruism. "Tell you what. Foreman and Elaine are working on the prototype for their latest flamethrower. It should be done in about ten days, and Elaine's magnificent ass owes me a favor. Wanna have first crack at it?"

Wilson's wry grin widened into a full smile. Reclaiming his abandoned stool, he flicked House companionably on the arm. "You know how to treat a lady right."

"Damn skippy," House said contentedly. The heat was still oppressive and the world was still going to hell, but it had turned into a good day after all. "Give me the scope, birthday boy. It's your turn at the rifle."


End file.
